Alice shook her head.
“There’s the Primrose Courier, for instance,” the King continued reflectively, “the most reliable Messenger we have; he understands all about Open Doors and Linked Hands and all that sort of thing, and he’s quite as useful at home. But he frightens some of them nearly out of their wits by his Imperial Anglo-Saxon attitudes. I wouldn’t mind his skipping about so if he’d only come back when he’s wanted.”
“And haven’t you got any one else to carry your messages?” asked Alice sympathetically.
“There’s the Unkhaki Messenger,” said the King, consulting his pocket-book.
“I beg your pardon,” said Alice.
“You know what Khaki means?” I suppose.
“It’s a sort of colour,” said Alice promptly; “something like dust.”
“Exactly,” said the King; “thou dost—he doesn’t. That’s why he’s called the Unkhaki Messenger.”
Alice gave it up.
“Such a dear, obliging creature,” the King went on, “but so dreadfully unpunctual. He’s always half a century in front of his times or half a century behind them, and that puts one out so.”